


Ghost Dancing

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Gender Identity, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance is trying to run a professional company and put together a good show, but the new dancer he brings in, Arthur Pendragon, struggles to fit in with the style and the company, and Merlin especially.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: past homophobia narrated,

“Lance!”

 

Lance looks up from where he’s marking changes to Gwaine’s routine, wincing as the door crashes hard against the wall. It’s Merlin who storms in, of course.

 

“Yes?” Lance says.

 

“What this I hear about your getting a classical ballet dancer in? And not only that, but Arthur Pendragon, who is the biggest arse on the planet, ever? Bar none?” Merlin says, stalking over and throwing a fist into Gwaine’s chest.

 

“Don’t harm my dancers, please,” Lance says.

 

“He can take it just fine,” Merlin says, “answer.”

 

“Have you met Arthur, then?” Lance asks.

 

“No. I’ve seen enough interviews and read enough reviews and online comments and articles.”

 

“Don’t believe everything you hear. Look, I know you have a thing about ballet not fitting in with what we’re trying to do, but Arthur can do this. He’ll make a brilliant Mr Hawkins, I promise. Just give him a chance,” Lance says, “Gwaine, back me up.”

 

“Never met the bloke, don’t plan on judging him till we’ve seen a bit. You know me, take them as they come. However, I don’t much like ballet dancers either, Lance. Why’re we getting a ballet dancer? We don’t do ballet. Can’t we get someone more used to what we do?”

 

“What, a mix of parkour, break dance and what you guys call my ‘frilly bits’? You know of anyone?”

 

“Well, no,” Gwaine admits, “your frilly bits are frankly weird, mate. Brilliant, but deeply weird.”

 

Lance decides to wait until everyone’s here to properly defend his decision to hire Arthur. It’s not like Arthur will be on time, not for him, not for this. Not really for anything, actually.

 

“He’s an awful time-keeper,” Lance admits to Gwen when Arthur’s held up their rehearsal for fifteen minutes and people are getting tired of complaining and want to get on.

 

“I can see that,” Gwen says, “could we get on without him? The masses are restless.”

 

“Can’t,” Lance says, watching Merlin mutter to Gwaine, probably planning a mutiny, “Arthur’ll get lost pretty quick today anyway, intro stuff I have planned is mostly for his benefit. This is gonna be a difficult birth.”

 

“Birth?”

 

“Birth of perfection. It’s like being in labour,” Lance says, grinning, “Sorry. Arthur and I had a tutor who went on about pulling together show cases was worse than giving birth to her twins, so we started referring to the process as giving birth. We used to rate each other’s stuff in terms of after-birth mess, placenta, umbilical cord, ugly baby, that little white baby they always use in films for someone cute and angelic. Instead of one to five.”

 

Gwen starts to laugh, just as Merlin starts to complain more loudly, and then Elyan wanders over with a sketch book and starts drawing Percy who tells Elyan to shove off and Mithian starts to shout at Elena about… something about horses or somesuch. Lance wants to bury his head in his hands as the room erupts into chaos and yelling.

 

“Quiet down, please,” he says, instead.

 

Nothing happens.

 

“Shut up!” Lance tries.

 

Nothing.

 

He’s just about to get annoyed when the door bursts open for the second time today. Instead of Merlin roaring in in his mess of scarves, bags, loose jumpers and chaos, Arthur strides in, though. Arthur’s always been quite commanding. He stills, takes a look around the room, meets Lance’s eyes and gives him a fleeting grin and cocky head tilt, then he stands completely still and quiet for a moment.

 

“Oh dear,” Lance says, when the noise levels retreats not a jot.

 

“Let’s have no more of this,” Arthur says.

 

He doesn’t shout, he doesn’t use a ‘teacher whisper’, he just says it, firm and certain, and expects people to quiet to listen for more. Everyone does; they always have, for Arthur. The room quiets and people turn to him.

 

“Oh great, you decided to show up,” Merlin says, already launching into a rant.

 

“Lance,” Arthur says, ignoring Merlin and coming over.

 

Lance gets to his feet and shakes his head, because brushing Merlin off mid-rant is never, ever a good idea. Arthur looks at him, grips his shoulder and turns him one way then another, then smiles broadly.

 

“You look good, Lake,” Arthur says, tone warming, “very good. This Gwenevere you’re always on about must be good for you.”

 

Lance winces, avoids Gwen’s eye. He knows she’s blushing. Arthur tugs, suddenly, and Lance gets a face full of broad, muscular chest and a waft of sweat as Arthur half hugs him, half holds him in a strangle hold.

 

“You stink,” Lance mutters, patting his shoulder.

 

“Came from fucking Alice, didn’t I?” Arthur says, blithely.

 

“We don’t need to hear about your sexual exploits,” Merlin snaps, “In fact, we’ve all been waiting a while and would like to get started so if you wouldn’t mind keeping your reunion for later?”

 

“Sexual exploits?” Arthur says, scandalised, “with Alice? Christ alive, she must be seventy! That was for emphasis, not a verb!”

 

Arthur pulls away from Lance to give Merlin a horrified look.

 

“Whatever,” Merlin says.

 

“Let’s get started,” Lance breaks in, before Merlin can get in another rant.

 

He hands out music, parts and scripts, then goes over the scenes and plot and where they fit in, briefly because they should all have already learnt it all from his detailed pre-practise emails, then he gets them all up on their feet for warm ups.

 

Merlin scoffs and grumbles when Lance goes through the basics with them, jeers at Arthur when he topples off a table they’re using as set until Leon gets done with their actual set, and then laughs loudly when Arthur stumbles into Gwen. Lance is aware than this can only end badly, because Arthur’s ego can only take so much, so once they’re done with warm ups he calls a five minute break and collars Arthur.

 

“How’re you, mate?” Lance says.

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t kill your little rat,” Arthur says, from between his teeth, sending death glares Merlin’s way.

 

“Don’t let him hear you call him that. Either rat or mine. He’s neither.”

 

“No, you’re right. Perhaps twat muncher is better.”

 

“We have a bit of a no swearing thing going on here,” Lance says, “swear box and everything. It goes to Percy’s daughter, who fundraises for WWF. She wants a panda of her very own and thinks this is the way to get their good will.”

 

“Don’t trivialise children’s ethics like that,” Arthur says, “they have better morals than us, they don’t bother to compromise them. We’d do well to pay attention.”

 

“You know I’m joking.”

 

Arthur gulps down half a bottle of water instead of answering, eyes scanning the stage where everyone’s stood about.

 

“Elyan I can pinpoint, because he’s the only POC you have here who’s not Gwen, who I recognise from pictures you endlessly send me. Merlin is the rat. Mithian, pretty girl with a plait, Elena I know, Gwaine I know of and recognise… who else?”

 

“Percy’s the big guy who- oh, just tossed Merlin onto the table, Guys! Careful, don’t fuck about!”

 

“Swear jar,” Elena sing songs.

 

“Shit,” Lance says, quiet enough not to be called on it but not quiet enough that Arthur doesn’t give him an amused look, “quiet mousy girl is Freya, she’s a legend. Bloke in red is Tristan, he’s doing the lighting, dunno what he’s doing on the stage or at this rehearsal. Won’t need him till day after tomorrow.”

 

“Right,” Arthur says, “too many names. Hang on. Percy; big guy. Freya; mousy. Tristan; lighting. Okay.”

 

“Before you all cool down, let’s get stuck in!” Lance calls, giving Arthur a smile.

 

Arthur smiles back.

 

Half an hour later he’s not smiling. He’s determined, sweaty and focused, frowning fiercely, eyes stuck to his sheets as he tries to move through them with Merlin snorting and huffing as commentary. It’s torture, watching Arthur struggling and failing, knowing that the chance Lance bought for him is slowing vanishing from his teams’ eyes. Only Gwaine’s still watching with interest, and Lance is pretty certain that is appreciation for Arthur’s bum.

 

“Right, five minutes guys,” Lance says, “then we’ll run Percy and Arthur’s.”

 

Arthur sits on the edge of the stage, head bowed over his sheet, foot kicking the wood as he runs the rhythm.

 

“He’ll make a brilliant Mr Hawkins,” Merlin says, appearing at Lance’s side, “you were so very right.”

 

“Give him a chance, Merls,” Lance says, “he’s a ballet dancer. Give him a day or two to get his head round this.”

 

“He’s useless,” Merlin says.

 

Lance can hear genuine frustration in Merlin’s voice, not malice or anything, but it still bugs him.

 

“You are too quick to judge,” Lance says, “Arthur!”

 

Arthur comes over, and Lance notices that he’s favouring his right ankle. Great.

 

“What the hell have you done to yourself, you twat?” he says, tugging Arthur’s trouser leg to get a look.

 

“Bug off, Lancey pants. It’s old, nothing I can’t handle. Just clicked in that last twist, because your compositions are impossible and stupid. How am I meant to move across this bit? There’s not time in the rhythm,” Arthur says, poking the paper viciously.

 

Merlin snorts and tugs it out of his hands, mouth opening, but then he frowns and passes it to Lance.

 

“Makes no sense,” Merlin admits, “there really isn’t time.”

 

“There is. Arthur can do it,” Lance says, “just think of it like Grieg, you know? One hand playing three parts.”

 

Arthur frowns, then hums a few bars, then his face clears.

 

“I see what you mean,” Arthur says, “but hell! I can’t do that! Trip over my own feet if I try it.”

 

“So try it later. Just skip the steps here,” Lance says.

 

Arthur nods and pulls out a bit of lead pencil, scribbling.

 

“What did you want me for?” Arthur asks.

 

“Nada,” Lance says, and calls them back to work.

 

Arthur crashes into Percy and knocks them both off the stage. Lance sighs and scrubs his face, and is about to call it a (very short) day, but Arthur gets up, laughing at himself, and tugs Percy after him. Percy looks less than keen, but Arthur hops back to his starting position and Percy reluctantly joins him.

 

Lance manages to get a complete walk through in six hours, which is good going. He calls a halt to proceedings and Arthur flops down, lying on his back, sheets scrunched and scribbled on. Merlin glares for a while, then flounces out. The others leave one by one until it’s just Lance and Arthur, and Gwen.

 

“I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” Gwen says, wrapping an arm around Lance’s waist and watching Arthur, “Leon’s still out back, by the way, don’t lock him in.”

 

“Not sure he’d notice if you did,” Arthur mutters from the floor, “he’s ridiculous.”

 

“You know Leon?” Gwen asks.

 

“I… he is an acquaintance, of a kind,” Arthur says, “I’ve worked with him a few times. He’s a bit too intense about sets to really be called a friend. Does he have friends? I was rather under the impression that he lived under the stage with a laptop to watch Buffy on and just snuck out when he had a set to create.”

 

“Don’t be an arse,” Lance says, “I’ll see you later, Gwen. Got a few things to set up for tomorrow. God, I hope Merlin’s in a better mood.”

 

“I’ll take him some Ben and Jerries and commiserate about what a twat Arthur is, that should soften him up.”

 

“I’m not a twat,” Arthur says, “well, actually, I am a bit of a twat. But, I’m sometimes sorry about it, so it doesn’t count, surely?”

 

“You really never change, do you?” Lance says, jumping up onto the stage to gather discarded sheets and scripts and clothing (mostly Merlin’s) and to shove the table off.

 

Arthur groans and heaves himself to his feet to wander about behind Lance, offering a hand where helpful, grumbling about how ridiculous and embarrassing this whole thing is for him where not.

 

“Just relax. It’ll be easier with the music and tomorrow the focus’ll be more on separate bits and less on generalities, people will pay less attention to you. Then, Wednesday, just you Merlin and Gwaine are in so I can go over that arse of a dance with the three of you and you can impress Merlin.”

 

“Won’t be impressing anyone till next week an least,” Arthur says, perching on one of the chairs Lance put on the stage, “this is hard.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s not ballet.”

 

“Well, not classical, perhaps. I saw what you did at school, though, mate. You can’t fool me. I know what you can do with ballet.”

 

“Oh God, you saw that thing I did with Ranulf, didn’t you?”

 

“The Big Gay Bonanza? Yup. We all secretly titled it ‘the big gay banana’.”

 

“I don’t know which is worse. I can’t believe we called it that.”

 

“You were so fed up with it, Arth,” Lance reminds, “you came up with the name after fuckwit Thompson said you couldn’t partner with Ranulf if you wanted to do that kind of seduction dance because it was against the grain.”

 

“I’d forgotten fuckwit Thompson. Homophobic son of a bitch.”

 

“Come on, I’ll take you through a few more basics, get you started. You can look over the dances tonight.”

 

Lance takes Arthur through a bit of Parkour, but then Arthur grumbles about his ankle so Lance lets him give up.

 

“I might stay a bit, if you’re leaving Leon the keys?” Arthur says.

 

“I was thinking of it, you psychic freak.”

 

“I just know you. Horribly well.”

 

Lance leaves Arthur to it. When he gets back from dropping the keys with Leon Arthur’s stood in the middle of the room, drawing stillness to him. Lance slips out into the hall and bumps right into Merlin.

 

“All your stuff’s on the chair at the back,” Lance whispers, “keep it down, would you?”

 

Merlin nods and sidles into the hall. Lance waits for him, meaning to offer him a lift so Gwen doesn’t have to wait with ice cream on Merlin’s doorstep forever, but merlin doesn’t come back out. Lance sighs, assuming he and Arthur have got into an unbreakable glaring duel, and goes to fetch him. He’s standing, coat held loose in one hand, gaping.

 

Arthur’s started dancing. He’s doing what he used to do, to clear his head; following steps that are ingrained in his muscle memory, warm ups and basics, and then transposing, composing, creating from there. A basic set of steps spins out under Arthur into an intricate, rhythmic thing, air and invisible music pulsing. Arthur settles, then stills a moment, poised, and then he’s off, across the room in a series of spins and leaps, and then he’s back to rhythm.

 

He’s using what Lance taught him today, building it into a heartbeat, letting go his speed in favour of a slow, throbbing, stamping, spinning, faster, faster, whirling, waiting, stopping… and then he’s beating a rhythm with his feet, leaping. Lance recognises a bit of Ghost Dances, then Arthur spins away again. There’s Scheherazade, swan lake, and then-

 

The ballet breaks and Arthur’s whole physicality changes. Smooth classical leaps and spins and rhythm giving way to a tribal, animal thing. Ferocious, intent, Arthur’s whole body is in it, moving to something only he can hear, eyes shut, the only sound the pounding of his feet, the beat playing out under him.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Merlin says, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

Arthur stops, spins, and then walks promptly into the wall.

 

“Well, your amazement was nice while it lasted,” Lance says, going to pick Arthur up.

 

“How is it that someone who can…. That… can also… this?” Merlin says, gesture nonsensically.

 

“Alright?” Lance asks Arthur.

 

“I was busy,” Arthur snaps, “thought you’d all gone.”

 

“Sorry,” Lance says.

 

He guides Arthur to the car. He knows that Arthur hates being snapped out of his dancing like that, knows it’s almost painful, changing his focus from music, movement, internal to external and other people and sensation that isn’t a kind of synthesesia, a translation of sound to touch and touch to sound that Arthur described once, a description that nearly got him evaluated for schizophrenia when he put it into a project.

 

It takes three days for Arthur to begin to get the hang of things. Merlin loses all the faith he found in a few moments watching Arthur do his thing after the first day and starts goading and poking at Arthur, until Lance has to rearrange the schedule so they have a day apart from one another. Arthur, to be fair to him, just gets on with it and keeps his head down, when working, but Lance knows that Arthur gives Merlin as good as he gets on the break and is equally derisive of Merlin’s performances, he’s just more careful about Merlin to appear the ‘good guy’ in the situation.

 

It’s Monday again before Lance knows it, and Arthur’s late again. Everyone’s more used to him now, so they’re not as unforgiving this time. Arthur’s been late pretty consistently, though not more than five minutes most of the time. Today he’s almost half an hour late and Lance has no choice but to start everyone off without him. Arthur arrives sweaty and scowling.

 

“You’re late,” Merlin says, straightening from stretching out his back.

 

Lance is with him and Percy, running through what they can without Arthur. Now Arthur’s here he kicks Elena and Mithian off the stage to practice elsewhere, as he’s got them in on their own tomorrow, and give the space to Merlin, Arthur and Percy instead. He stands by, listening to Arthur and Merlin bickering, but then he gets fed up and goes to sit with Leon, who’s come out from hiding and is watching with a frown.

 

“Pendragon’s not even dancing,” Leon says, “what’s he up to?”

 

“Hasn’t got the steps, yet,” Lance says, “he’s a bit lost in it all.”

 

“No, I mean he’s holding them up. Look,” Leon says.

 

Lance watches. All he sees, at first, is Arthur and Merlin bickering, but then he notices it. Every time Merlin goes to start dancing, Arthur will make a comment or point at something and set Merlin off again.

 

“So he is,” Lance says, “I wonder what he’s doing.”

 

“Ankle?” Leon asks.

 

“You noticed that?”

 

“Nope. Elyan talks a lot and his costumes are starting to explode out of his office into my space. He’s setting up rails and everything.”

 

“I’ll see about finding him somewhere else, but unless I uproot us to an entirely new building…”

 

“I don’t think it’s Pendragon’s ankle,” Leon says, suddenly, “look at that grin.”

 

Lance looks up and scowls at the delighted grin on Arthur’s face, the avid focus on Merlin’s flushed cheeks.

 

“Damn it. Not again. Bloody hell, anything with two legs and a dick. Oi! Arthur, get your arse in gear and stop winding Merlin up!” Lance yells, loud enough to turn everyone’s head.

 

Arthur glares, now the centre of attention and having to put on a performance, but it’s half-hearted because he knows he deserves it. He says something to Merlin, making him nod decisively and move to his starting position, then Arthur spreads his hands and shrugs, giving Lance a pathetic look. It won’t save him, Lance decides, not this time, but then Arthur’s eyes get wider and he looks truly...

 

“Oh those stupid puppy dog eyes,” Lance mutters, waving his hand, accepting the apology.

 

“Should be registered lethal weapons,” Leon says, sourly, “Geraint made me re-design a whole section of the set because of them. Oh.”

 

The soft exclamation is because Arthur’s started to dance. Not just stumble through the steps, but actually dance, fitting his movement to Percy and Merlin’s, finally showing some of the grace Lance was counting on. Merlin tosses him easily up onto the table when the time comes and the surprise of Arthur not blundering into the table, instead sailing easily and landing perfectly, make _Merlin_ blunder into the table. Arthur just catches his shoulder and turns it into part of the dance, without thinking, caught up in it all.

 

“Thank god,” Lance says.

 

“Your faith was not misplaced,” Mithian says, sitting at Lance’s other side, munching on a doughnut.

 

Lance confiscates the muffin she has in her pocket without looking, and the chocolate bar.

 

“You’re not my dietician,” Mithian says.

 

“You can have them at lunch. Not here and now.”

 

Mithian goes quiet, watching Arthur along with everyone else.

 

 

Merlin watches Arthur dance. It’s fascinating. For the first week Merlin would have sworn the bloke was clumsier on stage than he himself was off. There had been that evening where he left his coat and walked in on Arthur doing some kind of weird, tribal, ballet thing smushed, which was awesome, but that had been so brief he almost believed he’d dreamed it. And then, all of a sudden, he’d just flipped and become something else.

 

As Merlin watches Arthur moves across the top of the scaffold that is currently their set, swings down, rolls, tucks himself under. He’s running the dance, Merlin realises, that’s full of Lance’s frills. Arthur hasn’t even attempted any of them, yet, just dumbing the steps down in practise. He’s still not trying frilly bits. Merlin turns a chair and sits backwards on it, resting his head on his forearms, to watch. He can’t help himself, really, and he doesn’t feel guilty because nor can anyone else. They’re all very good dancers, but Arthur holds attention.

 

Merlin’s half dazed, not paying much attention, lulled by Arthur’s familiar movements, when all of a sudden the rhythm changes. Merlin pulls his head up. There are the frills, he thinks, and Lance is right- Arthur’s going to make a brilliant Mr Hawkins if he can pull this off. Arthur stops, frowning, then moves back to his starting position. He stands there for almost five minutes, silent and still, and Merlin would think he was finished if he hadn’t seen Arthur do the same thing countless times to gather himself.

 

And then he’s off, spinning ducking weaving leaping swinging his way through the entire dance, frills and trills twirling around himself. It’s almost like he’s dancing two parts with only one pair of feet. Merlin has no idea how he’s doing it, how he’s moving so fast, keeping track of all the steps and at the same time keeping his rhythm and grace. He spins, leaps, flies right over the set and catches a bar, leaping upwards off air, turning, falling, flying, feet moving to steps with no ground beneath them, landing like a cat.

 

Arthur doesn’t notice Merlin until he’s finished. He comes over, grinning, covered in sweat, dripping with it, and turns a chair so he can sit facing the back of the room. He leans back so they’re face to face and pokes Merlin’s cheek, then gently closes his mouth for him with a strong thumb, and laughs.

 

“Don’t cackle at me,” Merlin says.

 

“I get that reaction sometimes, don’t worry. Some people drool, even. I’m impressive, I know. Very skilled, me.”

 

“It’s not that, not so much skill,” Merlin muses, “I mean, any of us could match you in that. It’s the way you manage Lance’s frilly bits.”

 

“Well, he created his genre of ‘frilly bits’, as you all call them, watching me dance, so I have an advantage. Basically, they’re mine.”

 

“It’s like you dance for two people. Two parts.”

 

“Nah, it’s just tricks. Like playing the piano, where you have a bunch of notes and you play them in sequence, but the tune is held by two out of eight and you just have to… it’s all about depth and where the focus is held and what’s sustained and what’s let go.”

 

“Yeah. But I’ve never seen anyone _dance_ it before.”

 

“I’m very skilled.”

 

Merlin waves a hand, giving in.

 

“Whatever you need to believe,” he says, “I actually came because I wanted to get some practice in before Lance comes to be a slave driver.”

 

“I’ll watch. You owe me a private show, now.”

 

“Fuck off,” Merlin says, scowling, remembering why he’s not usually pally with Arthur; the man grates on him.

 

“Swear jar,” Arthur says.

 

He does get up and lope out, so Merlin puts his money in the tin and stretches. He runs the same dance Arthur just did, though he was planning on something different, dancing in his head and trying to fit himself into what he just saw. He goes through twice, then lets go. He shuts his eyes, finds the music and rhythm and creates a space in the air for Arthur, then he just goes for it. He comes to a stop centre stage, when he’s gone through twice, and pauses, breaking for breath, relaxing. And then applause starts.

 

“You’re not unimpressive yourself, you know,” Arthur says, jumping up onto the stage, clean and showered now.

 

“I thought you left me in peace.”

 

“Did, didn’t I? I didn’t disturb, you didn’t even know I was there. Besides, you’ve snuck in to watch me loads of times.”

 

“Four times,” Merlin corrects, automatically, and then blushes when Arthur quirks a grin at him.

 

“Indeed? I had only counted the three. That first time, when you interrupted and ruined everything, then this Monday when I stayed late and you Gwen snuck in with popcorn and giggled at me and discussed my arse and compared it with Lance’s and then snuck out again.”

 

“Ha! He came out top, I’m afraid.”

 

“Yes,” Arthur says, scowling, “I heard that bit too. Sound travels in here, you know.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No you’re not, you’re delighted. When was the fourth time?”

 

“Yesterday, at lunch,” Merlin admits, “you were just doing ballet then, it wasn’t gripping.”

 

“Hey. I was running a dance for Alice, who has written a ballet where I actually get to dance classical ballet with a man, don’t diss it.”

 

“Alice? You’re sexy thing that you see every Monday and Friday and use as an excuse for being late?”

 

“She is not sexy! Surely you know her? She knows you, you know. Alice DeGrace?”

 

“Oh. Oh, shite, not sexy. That’s… yuck. God, my old uncle Gaius fancies her!” Merlin says.

 

Arthur laughs at him.

 

“So,” Merlin says, with great dignity, and changes the subject with beautiful subtlety, “what’s the piece she’s working on now?”

 

“A big gay ballet, basically. Nah, it’s brilliant. It’s a sort of transposition of classical ideals to modern ideas, trying to mix the stories and techniques and such of ballet ballet, with the modern interpretations of those, the innovations, and new stories. Like LGBT stories.”

 

“Sounds interesting.”

 

“It’s a mess and it’s knackering, but it’ll be interesting when it’s done. Not sure about how good it’ll be.”

 

“This is new,” Merlin says, “we’ve had a whole conversation without insulting one another.”

 

“You’re being strangely descent for once.”

 

“Me! You’re the one who is a prat.”

 

“That is… entirely true. I’m a nice person though, I just can’t be arsed with the politeness crap. Come on, let’s run this before the others arrive.”

 

Merlin shrugs, but he does go through it with Arthur. Arthur trips over his feet on one frill and Merlin catches him without thinking, and Arthur’s face scrunches in thought for a moment before continuing. Merlin hopes that the expression was due to tingling to match Merlin’s own, but he has a feeling that it was more a bad idea popping into Arthur’s head than anything else.

 

“I think Merlin and I should do some lifts,” Arthur says, later, to Lance.

 

Merlin groans. He knew that look could only mean trouble.

 

“I am not being lifted,” Merlin says, “I hate it, it makes people label me as a girl.”

 

“He means the other way round,” Lance says, absently soothing Merlin’s feathers as if he does it all the time (Merlin wonders if he should tone it down, but Lance doesn’t seem to mind), “I don’t know, Arthur, are you sure?”

 

“Yeah, I reckon it’d be good. Some of the bits where I have to get on and off the scaffold, maybe? It’d smooth out some of the edges, too, and I could preserve some of the energy it takes to make your jumble into a coherent whole.”

 

“It’s not a jumble, you’re just useless at reading it.”

 

“It’s a bit of a jumble,” Arthur says, shutting Lance down with a stern glare.

 

Merlin almost laughs, and when Lance opens his mouth to speak and Arthur stops him with another look, leaving Lance gaping like a fish, Merlin does laugh.

 

“Right,” Lance says, “you asked for it, Merlin. Lifts it is. Let’s try a few things out tomorrow when you two are here with me on your own, then you can practise them on Saturday. You have the hall in town, as you asked, Arthur.”

 

“I have to work Saturday?” Merlin says.

 

“No, you don’t have to,” Lance says, “but you can, if you want to be good in this and get the reviews you want and be a team player and-“

 

“Fine, fine, I’m working Saturday on bloody lifts. Thanks, Arthur.”

 

“It’ll be good,” Arthur says.

 

It is good, in the end. Arthur’s not light and there are a limited amount of lifts they can use, but Arthur kind of uses Merlin as an extra bit of set so the lifts are not so much Merlin’s work as Arthur’s. Though there are a few where Merlin has to work to dance AND act as prop at the same time and not forget one or the other.

 

He manages not to drop Arthur, though, which is good. And he only fights with Arthur four times on Saturday and they’re all Arthur’s fault. The first is because Arthur mocks a beggar on the street outside the hall, which is just cruel. Arthur even looks repentant after Merlin yells and goes to apologise to the man. The second fight is over whether Merlin is ‘mucking it all up and being a clumsy oaf and don’t put our fucking foot there you idiot, Merlin!’. The third is because Arthur calls him a pleb when he learns where Merlin went to school and Merlin isn’t having that. The fourth is because Arthur knocks Merlin into a wall, ‘by accident’, and then falls on top of him.

 

“It really was an accident!” Arthur yells, for the hundredth time, where he’s still sat on the floor, “My ankle bloody hurts and you moved in the wrong cocking direction! That’s supposed to be to LEFT, not to the RIGHT! You absolute idiot!”

 

“For heaven’s sake!” Merlin yells, then, “your ankle hurts? You idiot, why didn’t you say you needed a break? Lance’ll hang you if you fuck yourself up in practise.”

 

“It’s that twist,” Arthur says, anger cooling off, “just before you move to the _left_ and tug me out, I have to sort of twist myself and jump at the same time, and it has to be soft because it’s not the tune, not the thread. It’s not damaging, I demonstrated it for the doctor and she said I could keep doing it without causing damage, it just put strain on the muscles and I should rest it after I do it a few times.”

 

“You’re still a complete wank job,” Merlin says, “I’m going home.”

 

He does go home, and he doesn’t feel at all guilty for abandoning Arthur with an iffy ankle to clear up and lock up. Not at all. And then Monday Arthur turns up with no limp and ruffles Merlin’s hair and teases him loudly about his schooling and knocks him out of his chair and laughs. Merlin curses him loudly, pays a fiver to the swear jar, then sulks in the corner.

 

Lance comes running in, even later than Arthur today (everyone’s started showing up ten minutes late on Mondays because Arthur’s never ever on time), waving a stack of new sheets. Merlin groans.

 

“Lance! We can’t change it now!” Gwen says.

 

“I want to change my lift with Ellie,” Mithian says, “but otherwise Gwen is right. And you already said we couldn’t change the lift, so it’s not that, you bastard.”

 

Mithian flips a coin off her fingers and Elena catches it from the air and puts it in the swear jar.

 

“No, you have to learn this. It’s a chorus scene for the end. I knew there was something to tie up, and now it’s sorted. Come on, it’s easy enough.”

 

Lance hands out the pages and everyone groans and grumbles but they get up on stage and look it over, then have a go. Arthur seems back to having six feet. He keeps going the wrong way and stumbling and focusing too hard on the paper and bumping into people. Merlin’s been shoved in right next to him and he keeps getting trodden on. When Arthur actually trips him Merlin’s had enough. He throws his sheet at Arthur’s head in a scrunched ball and glares at Lance.

 

“I won’t do this,” Merlin says, “Pendragon’s so useless.”

 

“I can’t help it,” Arthur says, throwing the balled up sheet at Lance, face purple with rage, “I can’t read this stupid thing, can I?”

 

“Oh,” Lance says, “Shite, Arthur, sorry. I forgot, I was so excited. Okay, let’s run it without Arthur, I’ll run it with you later. Sort it for you. What are your colours today?”

 

“Same as they always are,” Arthur grumbles, throwing himself into a chair and skidding across the stage.

 

“why does he get to skive?” Merlin asks, “it’s my toes he kept treading on, I want a rest, too.”

 

“Just get on with it,” Lance says.

 

Merlin refuses to talk to Arthur the rest of the day and deliberately mucks the dance up when Arthur looks too smug. He’s lying on the floor in Elyan’s cupboard office, bemoaning his fate to the ceiling (Elyan went to do something creative with Leon. Or to lunch, Merlin’s not sure), when Arthur comes in and sits in the desk chair, jaw tight.

 

“What do you want?” Merlin snaps.

 

“You really got out of bed the wrong side this morning,” Arthur says.

 

“If you’re here to mock me you can poo off. I’m knackered. Lance is making me work weekends.”

 

“Sorry about the lifts thing. It’ll just be cool.”

 

“Let’s skip cool and just try and pull this off, okay? Talk Lance out of the lifts and I might forgive you for the Saturday.”

 

“Alright. And.. today. Sorry. For hurting you. I know I did.”

 

Merlin shrugs. It’s true; Arthur knocked him into a table and it hurt, which is mostly why he raged.

 

“I’m dyslexic,” Arthur says, sighing, “can’t do left and right. Lance usually puts colours in for me, instead. Same with the steps. He adds stuff, visual stuff, so I can sight read it and dance it right off.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I’ll talk to Lance about the lifts.”

 

Arthur must, because they vanish from Merlin’s sheets. Arthur asks, once, if they can do one just for fun, in practise, which irritates Merlin because it’s time to go home and he’s tired. Six weeks into rehearsals, after a bad fight with Arthur, Merlin throws himself into his empty flat and onto his big, stupid sofa and growls, then gets up to throw a plate at the wall. It narrowly misses Lance’s head as he jimmies the lock and sidles in.

 

“Wow! Projectile weaponry,” Lance says.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Yeah. I need to talk to you. About Arthur. Because he’s at my house sleeping on my sofa and he’s pretty upset.”

 

“None of your business, we just had a fight.”

 

“Another fight.”

 

“Yes, another one. It was entirely his fault!”

 

“Right. Probably. He’s a prat. But, he’s got a good heart and he’s brilliant for Hawkins and he’s my mate and I love him, and he’s hurting, and it’s your fault.”

 

“I haven’t done anything!”

 

“No, I know. Not your fault in that sense. Just…” Lance sighs, “he likes you.”

 

“He has a crush? Great.”

 

“No. Well, maybe, who knows? Arthur’s weird. But not what I meant. I meant that h likes you, simple as that. He’s not great at making friends and it’s frustrating for him that you don’t seem to much like him, and you fight a lot which he’s not keen on, he usually has a thousand charms that get him out of arguments.”

 

“Charms don’t work on me, I’m impervious.”

 

“Yeah, I know. And… I wish you’d do a lift with him. Just one.”

 

“Why? Why do you have to go on about it? It’s too much, Lance. It’s already intense as hell and knackering and I need the days off. Especially when you’re starting Sunday rehearsals next week, am I meant to work all seven days? We work morning to night, I like my days off. It’s too much.”

 

“I know. It is. But, Arthur hasn’t let anyone lift him since uni.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Someone dropped him. Repeatedly. On purpose. We were all quite new to lifts, so he thought it just happened sometimes, so he didn’t mention it, and Val dropped him during a public performance and broke three of his ribs, and then said Arthur had to keep dancing or they’d both fail, so Arthur did. He didn’t know anything was wrong with it so he told about Val dropping him all the time, and Val beat the shit out of him for tattling.”

 

“Christ.”

 

“Most people know, Arthur’s boyfriend sold the story when we were all working shit jobs and no money. Well, except Arthur, because he actually can be incredibly charming and when determined he’s a terrifying force to be reckoned with, so it took him all of a year, maybe three months over that, to get funding, put on a show at the right time in the right place, impress the right people, get a good gig, star in a show and become the next big thing in every director and writer’s sights.”

 

“Of course. Prat like him, course he did.”

 

“His Dad offered to back him. Arthur let him invest half of the fronting money for the first show, then got him free tickets.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“I’m telling you, Arthur on the war path is terrifying. Half our year and the entire year below us did something LGBT in our end of year show cases because he cajoled, threated, ranted, raved and shoved until we promised. You know that the reason London Cam has such a great rep for being a good school for LGBT students and art projects is because of Arthur. He always knew who to complain to, always found the right leverage to get his way, always pushed and pushed and pushed until the barriers in his way came tumbling down.”

 

“Impressive.”

 

“One of the reasons we were all so surprised about Val is because Arthur was such a… strong, out-there, pushy prattish person, you know? We never even considered that he might think the value of himself was so little that being dropped was just something that one dealt with. I dropped my partner once, by accident, and she was so mad and she wasn’t even hurt at all, she bawled me out and stropped to the teacher and we had a long discussion and had to practise trust things and stuff for months before out tutor let us try again.”

 

“I still don’t know if I can manage the extra work.”

 

“It’s Arthur, he’ll pick it up in a few days and just work it in.”

 

“What about me?”

 

“Oh shove off, no one learns shite as fast as you do, Merls. It’s like you speed read dances and just inject them into your feet or something.”

 

Merlin invites Lance to stay for dinner, for that compliment.

 

 

Arthur can feel his heart beat just a little too fast. Merlin’s stood watching him, frowning, and Arthur knows that Lance told Merlin about Val, because that look is familiar and irritating. Arthur throws himself into the music, which they actually have now, and launches himself. He feels Merlin’s hand on his thigh, then he’s sailing up onto the scaffold, and on through the dance. He stops, turns, hanging onto the bar to get his breath.

 

He’s not meant to stop there, and Merlin’s gone on, turning off to the side and taking his turn up front, spinning, knees, up, back, spinning on one shoulder, flipping up, flipping, twisting. Arthur watches, entranced. It’s nothing like ballet, break dancing. Nothing at all like ballet. Not even his kind of ballet. Arthur can’t see the two fitting together, and yet here they are. That’s always been Lance’s super power. Fitting the unfittable. Finding beauty and order in jumbled chaos.

 

Merlin notices his stillness and turns, brow quirked, mouth setting into a cross line. Arthur hates that cross line. It’s there too often when Merlin looks at him. He’s not sure what it is he’s done to piss Merlin off so royally. He’s sure he deserves it. He suddenly loses his grip and he falls. Only, he doesn’t fall. Merlin’s hand is warm and solid on his back, holding him in place.

 

“Prat. What are you doing?” Merlin says.

 

“Sorry,” Arthur says, “Not sure. Break, I think.”

 

Merlin nods and doesn’t move until Arthur’s off the set. No one else is about, it being Saturday and their only day off. Arthur’s been here for hours, feet itching, head aching with music. Merlin had shown up at some point and done the lift, which is cool. Arthur lies flat on his back on the stage and waits for Merlin to go get his raisins and water.

 

“You’re so predictable,” Arthur says, when Merlin gets back with raisins and water, and an apple which he gives to Arthur.

 

“I am not, just my snacks.”

 

Arthur puts the apple on his stomach and yawns, stretching. He feels loose and good, music gone from him except for a gentle thrum. Much better.

 

“Think I’m done for today,” he says.

 

“Oh thank god. I thought you’d never stop.”

 

“You could’ve gone. Or asked. Or taken your own break.”

 

“I was keeping up.”

 

“Been here since half five in the morning, mate,” Arthur admits.

 

“Why!” Merlin wails, not a question, an ejaculation of horror.

 

“Get in my head, dunnit? The music. Little threads of it, chasing round and round, bits and pieces dancing. Very annoying, drives me nuts. Then I start twitching along to it. Ugh.”

 

“It’s in your bones, I guess.”

 

“Oh shut it, I know you get it, too.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“I’ve seen you. You don’t dance to music, you just become part of it. Except your break stuff, which is cool and musical and all, but-“

 

“Don’t diss it.”

 

“Right. Sorry. It’s amazing, it really is, but it’s not… don’t hit me. But you’re not in it as much.”

 

“Damn you. Damn it! That’s what Lance says. You try spinning on your head and losing yourself in it.”

 

“No thanks.”

 

Merlin laughs, then, and Arthur winces. Because he is completely and totally screwed and Lance is right. Every time he meets someone and they spark, he falls slowly but inexorably in love. And working with Merlin, dancing with Merlin, being with Merlin.

 

“I think I should get going,” Arthur says, jumping to his feet, apple falling.

 

“Right.”

 

Arthur’s not sure what it says about his usual attitude that Merlin doesn’t ever bat an eyelid over his abrupt exit. Maybe he should work on that.

 

Arthur finds it really hard to stop watching Merlin. After Arthur points out his weakness Merlin starts working late, frowning a lot. Arthur finds him twitching and spinning and bumping about on the floor like a live-wire, sometimes, music humming in the background, Merlin’s breathing loud, as if he’s silently humming along, trying to lose himself. And he does. Slowly, the showy, athletic edges fall away and Merlin’s break dancing segues smoothly from the other bits of the dances, roll into Arthur’s parts, Lance’s frills, Percy’s steady strength, Gwaine’s speed and agility. It’s brilliant, the four of them dancing Lance’s creation.

 

“Great. Lance, you’ve gotta put us with them, this is ridiculous. You’re segregating genders,” Mithian says one day, scowl dark.

 

“You know,” Arthur says, absently, examining the ceiling from where he’s laid out on his back on the stage, exhausted, “I wasn’t sure I was male, for a while. My Dad was so against me being gay, so stuck in archaic patterns… he used to call me a girl and effeminate and things like that. Thought it might be easier, like. Tried it, for a while.”

 

“I didn’t know that!” Lance says, sitting on the edge of the stage and throwing props at Arthur’s head in irritation (it’s a cushion, so the effect is minimal), “you know this comes under ‘stuff you’re meant to tell me’. Twa- twit.”

 

“Twatwit. New kinda bird, Lancey pants? Anyway, it was high school and it was only a term. Went through the rest of the year and college as non-binary, switching, being andro. Then settled on being male again, before uni and you. Thought it was fairly common in this profession, to question gender and so forth, so I just thought it was nothing much of interest.”

 

Arthur feels eyes on him and sits up. Mithian, Merlin, Lance and Gwen are staring at him as if he’s insane. He can feel a blush approaching so he heads it off with a scowl.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“No,” Merlin says, “nothing. Just… you’re kind of a stereotypical jock-guy, all macho and sporty and shite. Thought maybe you’d be more… inflexible.”

 

“I’m gay,” Mithian says, “So there’s that. But it’s not a gender thing, right? I think you’re just wierdy, Arthur.”

 

“Hey,” Gwen says, softly, “be careful. I’m cis and straight and all, but check your privilege, Mithian. I don’t think you should call Arthur ‘wierdy’ for being non-binary.”

 

“Sorry,” Mithian says, “it was just a joke. Slipped out, I guess. Anyway, Lance. Stick us girls in!”

 

“It’s a point,” Lance says, “you’re dancing with Gwen and Elena, the guys are dancing together. Till the end. It’s part of the play. Do any of you ever pay any attention to the plot, the actual narrative? The story you’re supposed to be telling?”

 

“We rely on you to make sure that gets told,” Arthur says, slamming back down on the stage, groaning, “And while you do a great job, I’m sure, it’s absolutely knackering. I want to get a nap in and then do a bit of a run through. Next week we’re doing the part Mith will like, though, right?”

 

“At least you pay some kind of attention,” Lance says.

 

“I pay attention,” Merlin says, less boisterous than usual, quiet.

 

Arthur frowns when Merlin doesn’t follow it up. He knows for a fact that Merlin has read the entire script, the plot summary, the emails Lance sends out, has gone into character and narrative and plot with Lance, has researched it all thoroughly and knows the story and the threads of it all probably better than even Lance does, and Merlin rarely passes up a chance to demonstrate how much better than Arthur he is. Arthur glances over.

 

Merlin’s sat on one of the chairs that’s part of the set, staring at the clock on the back wall, frown deeply etched. As Arthur watches Merlin looks across to him and meets his eyes, blush spreading wildly across his cheeks and nose, lip drawing up between his teeth to be mauled. Arthur grins and waves a lazy hand, and the blush recedes. Merlin just frowns at him. When Arthur looks away, Lance is waving from the doorway, keys tossed into the bowl for Arthur to return later, and he’s alone with Merlin.

 

“Suppose we should practise,” Arthur says, assuming Merlin’s staying behind.

 

Merlin doesn’t answer, just flops down beside Arthur and shuts his eyes.

 

“Were you really non-binary?” Merlin asks, eventually, turning his head but not opening his eyes.

 

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “kind of. Went with the androgynous thing, really, rather than anything overt. I had a few skirts, bit of make up, stuff like that. Sometimes I’d go clubbing as a woman. Or girl, I guess. I dunno, I just wasn’t really comfortable being ‘Arthur’, and it gave me a way to explore me, find someone I was comfortable with.”

 

“You’re very… open. I’d have guessed you’d be closed.”

 

Arthur snorts, grinning.

 

“I am. Pretty much stone, me, don’t say a word about this stuff. But, Lance has been a good mate, and Mithian… I was making a point, to be honest. And Gwen’s just Lance’s, you know? An extension of him.”

 

“What about me?”

 

“Well.”

 

Arthur leaves it at that. Merlin doesn’t press, which is a relief. Because, if he had, Arthur might have kissed him.

 

“Do you have a preferred pronoun?” Merlin asks.

 

“Go by ‘he’ and ‘him’, these days. Sometimes when I’m out I use ‘they’ if it’s some kind of Safe Space thing, but I’m usually comfortable with male pronouns.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Arthur hums, tapping his fingers on the stage, music itching under his skin. He doesn’t want to get up, not yet, but it’s there, waiting. Beating. He sometimes wonders if his mother accidentally made him with music for blood.

 

“I’m trans,” Merlin says, suddenly, out of nowhere.

 

That explains the thoughtful silence and questions.

 

“Kay,” Arthur says.

 

“Was born as a girl. No one knows.”

 

“I don’t care enough about your secrets to out you, <i>Mer</i>lin,” Arthur says.

 

Merlin laughs, opens his eyes, and kisses Arthur.

 

 


End file.
